My Dear Boy
by Shibalyfe
Summary: Draco deals with something he has never had to deal with before, losing someone he loved. This was written for The Houses Competition: Y3R6.


House: Gryffindor

Position: Prefect

Category: Short

Prompt: [Event] Emotional Breakdown

Word count: 1984

Beta: The amazing Tiggs!

A/N: This is an AU. This was written for The Houses Competition Y3R6

My Dear Boy

Draco stared at the letter in his hands. His head was pounding and the room was spinning. The thudding of his heart drowned out all the other noises surrounding him. He didn't notice the rest of his classmates staring at him or Blaise calling out to him, asking what was wrong. All he could focus on was the letter clenched in his hands, the words written on the parchment playing over and over in his head.

He jumped when Blaise touched his shoulder and he frantically took in all the curious looks and stares that were directed at him. He shoved Blaise's hand away and ran towards the dormitory. His footsteps were loud on the cement floor.

He shouldered open his bedroom door and closed it with a loud bang, quickly locking it behind him. He leaned against the door, trying to slow his ragged breathing but his mind just kept reverting back to the letter. He held his breath and slowly reread the letter again, hoping that this time the words were different.

 _Draco,_

 _Your mother has fallen gravely ill. She is requesting that you return home for the winter holidays._

 _Regards,_

 _Lucius Malfoy_

Draco collapsed, the door the only thing keeping from tipping over. He slid down the door and stared at the fire while tears fought to escape his eyes.

* * *

Draco stared down at his plate, slowly moving food from to side. He frowned in disgust before pushing his plate away from him. Blaise and Theo sat down next to him but he ignored them. He didn't know how to talk to them. Every time he opened his mouth he wanted to scream or cry, but he couldn't do that. That's not how Malfoy's were supposed to act, so instead he ignored them. He ignored his friends, classmates, and even his enemies. He didn't make jabs at Hermione Granger or shove Harry Potter as he entered classes. He ignored them, he ignored everyone.

It was weird; Draco saw everything that was going on around him but he didn't feel any of it. He could hear the chatter of the hall, the clanking of the silverware on the plates, but it was muted. He could see the bright lights and the starry sky on the ceiling but it was hazy. It was like he was walking through a dream, or in this case, a nightmare. He was just going through the motions of his life.

Every morning, his stomach dropped at mail time. He wasn't sure if he was hoping for a letter or dreading one; each day that he went without news festered in his stomach and in his mind. He was becoming anxious. He could feel each day dragging and felt the slowing of the clocks. He was counting down the days—no, the hours—until he could see his mother again and make sure she was all right. Five days. Three days. One day.

* * *

Draco ran up the stairs. His father hadn't given him any more information on the way home from the train and he was eager to see her with his own eyes. He heard his father calling after him, chastising him for his behavior, but he didn't care; he would deal with the consequences later. Right now, the only thing that mattered was his mother.

He threw open the door and stumbled in. He saw her pale face and her dull eyes and ran to her.

"Mother, how are you feeling? Do you need anything?" He reached for her hand and stiffened when he felt how cold she was. "I'll stoke the fire; those bloody elves don't know a thing about keeping you warm."

He walked over to the fire and worked the logs until a blazing fire roared in the fireplace. The glowing flames did nothing to bring color back into his mother's face; all they did was accentuate the blank expression.

He could hear the muffled footsteps of his father but he didn't dare turn around and face him. He stared at his mother, not wanting to miss any sign of movement or discomfort from her. He would make this better.

"She's gone, son," Lucius stated behind him.

Draco went cold. He could feel his father's eyes on his back but he didn't move. He didn't take his eyes away from his mother's blank face. It had worn many expressions in its lifetime. He wished now he could see any one of them-one of her rare smiles or even her disapproving frown. He just wanted something. Something of her again, anything but that vacant expression with unseeing eyes. He had been too late.

"Come, Draco." His father clamped a hand on his shoulder and tried to drag him away, but Draco tensed and shrugged his hand off his shoulder.

"Draco," his father sneered, "Now! She is dead, there is nothing more to do."

When Draco instead moved closer to the bed, his father huffed loudly and slammed the door shut behind him when he left. The noise rang out through the silent room and cut through Draco like a knife. He folded over his mother's hand and sobbed. She wouldn't be wiping the tears away this time.

* * *

Draco was there the next day when they came to collect his mother's body. He watched the two men try to take his mother away and instantly saw red. He threw a hex at one man and punched the other one square in the face. He had been ready to tackle the first man when his body became rigid and he fell to the floor. His father walked over to him and frowned at him from where he fell to the ground before stepping over him and directing the two men towards the body.

Draco had been forced to watch as they carried his mother out of the room and away from him. Silent tears fell from his eyes until his father released him from the spell.

He instantly jumped up and screamed at his father.

"Careful, boy." His father snarled, "Don't make me show you your place."

Draco ignored his threatening words and pushed him before running out of the room. He blindly made his way down the hall and to his bedroom. He stumbled to the bed and cried.

He didn't leave his bed for three days. He didn't shower. He didn't eat. He barely moved.

On the third day, his father barged into his room. Draco's eyes barely fluttered to the door before they darted back to the spot on the wall that he had been staring at.

His father sneered in disgust at his unkempt appearance. He grabbed at Draco and forced him out of bed. Draco felt weak; his knees almost collapsed underneath him. His father shook him hard before dragging him out of the room. He stumbled over the cold marble floor but didn't put up a fight; he didn't have it in him to care where his father was taking him. He was probably being dragged to the dungeons to be punished, but Draco didn't care; his will to live died with his mother.

Draco was shoved into the drawing room and could instantly feel the coldness envelop his body. The hairs on the back of his head rose and his arms broke out in goosebumps. His heart leapt in his throat when he saw red eyes across from him. He bent in a low bow out of instinct.

Voldemort slowly glided his way across the floor to Draco. His cold hands touched Draco's cheek and raised his head.

"How is your progress, young Draco? Have you succeeded at your task?"

Draco gulped before slowly shaking his head. He tried to open his mouth to explain but he was backhanded across the face. He heard his neck snap and his eyes flew to the back of his head. The room was filling with laughter as he landed hard on the floor. He felt the pain but he welcomed it this time. This was the first thing he had felt in weeks.

His body was shaking from the pain as Voldemort cast an onslaught of curses at him. He could feel his bones break. He heard himself cry out in pain. His heart thudded in his ears. He counted the beat of his heart. One. Two. Three. Each beat a reminder that he lived. He lived. Even though she had died.

He had been dragged back to his room after his punishment was done. He was broken, sore, and bleeding, but he didn't care. He lay on his bed stiff and stared out the window. His life wasn't supposed to be this way. His mother was supposed to be here. He was supposed to be saving her. She was the only reason he even did the Dark Lord's bidding. The threat of her life had always been more important than his own but she was gone.

His eyes drifted to the metal frame on his bedside and he reached towards it, his arm protesting at the movement. He grasped the picture and brought it to his face.

"This wasn't how it was supposed to be," he cried. "I was supposed to save you."

He let out an ear-piercing wail and threw a pillow across the room.

He was suddenly infuriated. His body shook with pain and anger but he lifted himself off the bed and began throwing everything. This wasn't the way life was supposed to be. His mother was supposed to be here. He was supposed to be the one everyone adored and was jealous of. He wasn't supposed to be bleeding in his own room, crying and wishing that he were dead. He was supposed to be the next successful Malfoy heir, the key to the Dark Lord winning the war, and one of the most powerful men in the country after the Dark Lord. He wasn't supposed to be hiding in his room or wishing that everything didn't fall on him.

He tore through his room. Each thought angered him more than the next. He threw his books, his brooms, and his trophies across the room in anger. He threw a cauldron out the window, shattering the glass. He threw crystal vials on the floor, littering it with the debris. The sharp pieces cut into his feet but he barely felt it. He threw pillows into the fire and watched in delight as they went up in flame. He tore his bookshelves off the wall, causing books and trinkets to skid across his floor.

He turned to survey the damage; his room was a mess. It reflected how he felt: angry, disorganized, and confused. He slowly made his way through the ruble towards his bed. His eyes caught sight of the silver frame glinting in the light. He reached out towards it, the only object still left intact in his room. He crumpled on the floor, clutching the frame to his chest.

"This isn't how it was supposed to be," he whispered over and over to himself. When he could no longer produce anymore tears and his screams could no longer produce sound, he stared at the picture.

"I was supposed to save you," he whispered.

His mother's portrait smiled at him sadly.

"My dear boy," she said sorrowfully. "I saved you."

He blinked at the picture in disbelief. She had saved him? He stared at the picture willing for it to say more, willing for more information, for more of an explanation, but it remained silent.

He threw the picture away from him, the words repeating over and over in his head. How had she saved him? She was the only thing that mattered. The only thing he cared about. Then it hit him. She was the _only_ thing he cared about.

The Dark Lord had nothing to hold over him anymore. He could be free.


End file.
